His head burst above the water. He spit then sucked in a quick breath before dropping below the surface again. His back hit a rock; he spun from feet first to head first. Once again his face found the open air. He’d been grasping and clawing for anything to hold on to since he’d fallen, but now he saw an actual beacon of hope.

A fallen tree on the western bank, its branches extending at least two dozen meters across the river. The Orphan grabbed one of the branches, felt his body jerk to a halt and his legs swing around to point downriver. Suddenly the force of the current was like a hundred hands pulling on his clothes, his feet, his arms, a gale of water beating against his face as he held on tightly. The slightest mistake, the slightest slip, and he’d be shot off.

But he was an Orphan, trained from birth to defeat human and beast, nature and pain. Although he had to admit to himself they’d never said a word about being dragged down a raging river.

He solidified the grip of his right hand, squeezing his fingers against the wet bark until it hurt. Then he released his left hand, held it against the torrent of pressure wanting to throw it downstream. He crossed over his right arm and grabbed the branch a half meter closer to the bank. He tightened that grip and released the other hand. Reached toward the bank, grabbed slimy wood again. He did this, over and over, until he brushed against the actual trunk of the felled tree, which served to deflect some of the pressure.

From there, it was easy. Branch by branch, he pulled himself along the trunk, climbing the tree in reverse toward the western side of the river. Soon he reached dry land and pulled himself onto the steep shore, collapsing on his back; he stared at the sky, the clouds thickening, dusk almost upon them, as he coughed and sputtered to get his breath.

A few seconds passed. Then everything came back to his wearied mind.

He scrambled to his feet, using the massive roots of the tree for purchase. He climbed the bank until he reached a flat spot of grassy earth. And he looked.

He’d floated at least a kilometer from the bridge, maybe more, now on the opposite side of where they’d parked the truck. The grayness of the twilight air made it impossible to know the distance for sure. And no matter how hard he squinted he couldn’t see whether Roxy was still standing on the bridge or what was happening with the strangers they’d encountered, now on the same side as he was.